


myths of innocence

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow recovery, slight canon divergence - lyon survives, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ephraim remembered clearly the different Gradian myths Lyon had shared over time. Stories of noble people, not always of blood, who faced tragedy head on, only to become the victorious one. He wondered now why that was - why had they no tales of the hero faltering, of slipping on the rocks and not landing on his feet? In truth, he cares little for the tales. But there was a happiness in Lyon’s eye when he recounted them - like he was speaking of somethings precious. After all they’d been through, after all Lyon had survived, he’d do anything to see that light.(Where in Lyon survives Fomortiis’s defeat, but keeps little memory of the events of the past year. How can Ephraim nurse him back to health without crushing him with the truth - and without spilling and admitting he’s in love?).





	1. I

**Ephraim.**

The halls of Grado’s palace were ghostly quiet. All the prince could hear was the swaying of the hanging banners, fabric slowly flapping against cool stone. A draft filled the air, causing the hair on Ephraim’s arms to raise, spotting with bumps. As he kneeled against the slate floors, a chill came upon him where his body touched it.

The silence, the cold - it was all desperately maddening. The crimson blood soaking his lap, however, brought relief - a sticky and familiar warmth.

Across from him, the body of his best friend Lyon continued to drain.

His own lance stuck up from the other man’s chest. The greatest of Renais’s forging, so starkly contrast to architecture of the Grado throne room. All around him was a cluster of people who should never have stepped foot inside the castle. A Raustien princess, a gambling king fleeing his birthright, Ephraim’s own loyal knight with hair the color of the blood smeared in his palms. All stood entirely still as though their bodies were frozen in place. None dared to move - none wanted to disturb the scene.

With a deep breath, Ephraim closed his eyes (though the imagine of Lyon growing cold was seared into his mind) and stood. He ignored the sensation of his loved one’s blood rolling off him to the floor.

“L’arachel,” he spoke in a quiet command. “Go and fetch Natasha. Hurry.”

She fidgeted with her gear, staff gripped tightly in hand.

“Lord Ephraim,” Seth said, “he’s gone.”

Ephraim places his hands against his temples, smearing blood across his skin.

“Someone go and fetch Natasha. Now.”

With a pitying glance, L’arachel (for she was closest to the door) set off at a quick pace.

Hesitation, and then with a sympathetic tone, Knoll spoke.

“My lord, Prince Lyon is-“

“ _Fine_ ,” Ephraim choked, his voice breaking on the words. He was tempted to move his hands to cover his eyes. It didn’t matter that he didn’t - no matter what, the scene before him was ever playing in his mind.

“He’s fine, and Natasha will make him more fine.”

No one said anything more. Perhaps no one had the heart to.

With brisk steps, Ephraim approached the man lying on the ground and kneeled beside him. His hands made their way to the man’s hair, doing his best to comb it through the tangles and drying blood. He wasn’t quite sure what the pang in his chest was - why it felt so different than all the times he’d lost before. A part of him blossomed with the hope that it was because Lyon wasn’t dead. He was only resting for now. Gods above knew he deserved it.

Lyon’s hair untangling was a fruitless endeavor. He continued anyway.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. His vision began to blur as tears overtook him. “I’m here. Please don’t go.”

A single, broken sob escaped his lips as his hands stilled, grip tightening. With Renais in anarchy, Eirika miles away and his father dead, Lyon was the last true light in Ephraim’s life. Lyon, his best friend, his family. The one he could turn to about anything - from help with his studies to personal questions, Lyon always has an open ear. He was a gentle breeze, always, a man mastered in the art of feeling like home.

Ephraim, with a start, fancied he’d felt something move beneath his fingertips. A pulse in Lyon’s throat, a heartbeat growing faint and weary.

“...Lyon?”

A blond cleric knelt beside Ephraim, frantically shoving his hands away, calling for him to get back. He stumbled away, hands shaking, breath catching in his throat.

He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive. Thank the gods, he’s alive.

As Natasha’s staff began to glow an inviting hue, arms wrapped around his own, and Ephraim was heaved back, pulled away from the scene and out of the cleric’s space. His hands clawed at his captor’s, feet scrambling to gain purchase. He was crying now, he knew - and unintelligible words were dripping from his lips in some desperate need to be heard.

“Bring him back! Please! That’s not him, I need him, give me Lyon!”

“Prince Ephraim, please-“ Seth’s (who else would so boldly grab him?) grip tightened, and Ephraim could feel the fingers against his clothed flesh, nails beginning to press in crescents. It ached like a memory long suppressed, like the throb of Ephraim’s chest as tears began to freely fall down his cheeks.

“Lyon-! Wake up!”

Leaning over Lyon, Natasha’s hands began to slow, the blue aura fading away. In the center of the room, a sharp breath is sucked in.

Once again the halls are dead silent. Ephraim slowly closed his eyes, lips moving, silently praying.

Let it be him. Please.

With one hand clutching his abdomen and the other resting on a careful cleric’s shoulder, the previously dying heir of Grado made his way into sitting up, hissing in pain at the superficially stitched wound.

Ephraim’s lips formed only one word then, a repeated chant. A relief.

Lyon. Lyon. Lyon. Lyon.

The prince of Grado and the prince of Renais opened their eyes. The locked from across the room, over the trails of crimson and clumps of torn fabric littering the stone floors.

“Ephraim?”


	2. II

**Lyon.**

 

His chest burned. There was a scalding fire in his veins, eating away at him, body and heart. When he opened his eyes, he opened them slowly; holding on to a woman he didn’t recognize, swallowing hard to push back the flame. 

 

Lyon was at home. Lying on the floor of his father’s throne room, in the lap of a kind, pale woman. Slowly, he looked around, fighting panic as he saw the sanguine stones. The moment felt too static. Who were all these strangers staring at him, and how did they get inside? Why was Knoll looking so shocked?

 

Finally he looked toward the back of the hall. An empty throne. Kneeling before it, but faced away, being held in place by a familiar knight - 

 

“Ephraim?”

 

His friend let out a cry, forcing himself away from Seth to crawl toward him. Lyon ignored the blood on his hands and the red lance beside him as he was pulled into Ephraim’s arms. Instead he burrowed himself into his chest, taking in the familiar scent. Everything about this scene was wrong. His father absent - dead and buried, and gods Lyon remembered how his body felt so cold. The crowd of strangers with words on their lips, watching. Ephraim, shaking, holding Lyon tighter than he ever had before. 

 

He had no idea how they’d gotten here. But perhaps that was to be questioned later. 

 

He barely noticed as he was yanked to his feet, words spoken about traveling - the flame crept back in, and he slipped under the waves. 

 

—-

 

When Lyon woke again, he was clean. He’d been bathed, hair washed and brushed, and the clothes against his skin was starched. With a shaking hand, he gently touched the wound on his torso; it was still evenly stitched, and had clearly been cleaned of the blood and grime. Satisfied he was safe (the atmosphere felt so much like home), he slipped over the edge of the bed and stood. 

 

He was in Renais. He had to be. The room was one he’d stayed in before, on a diplomatic trip. The stained glass of the windows, the carving of the stone in the wall - he’d seen it all before. But when did he get here, and why was he alone? Who was watching over Grado?

 

The door opened easy, and Lyon found himself creeping down the hall, searching for a familiar face. Eirika, Ephraim - where they why he was here? Had they come to see him while he slept? Perhaps they’d been the hands that washed him. 

His hands opened another door, walked inside. Shut it behind him. Like he’d done last time he’d stayed, but they didn’t talk about that. He’d promised not to. 

 

_“Lyon...” The lips were inches from his own. The books sat abandoned on the desk they sat at, pages half turned. Perhaps they were looking away in respect of the solemn moment._

_Ephraim’s hands moved away from his cheeks. “I’m... sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”_

_”It’s okay.” His response came automatically, despite the confusion in his heart. He’d imagined similar thing so before, though with a different twin. But now he was singing, lit by a gentle touch and a smile that mattered. He found he didn’t long for  different person. He wanted to stay, lock themselves in this moment until he understood._

_“No. It’s not.” Ephraim stood, pushing Lyon away and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I... you should go to bed. It’s late. And we aren’t going to talk about this again.”_

 

He sat at the same desk, conversing with the same knight he’d always known. 

“The people are regaining their trust in the throne,” Seth murmured. “In Grado they hold their breath for news of the prince, but the people of Renais have faith in you. They follow your laws, and your lance.”

He pinched his nose again. “Knoll has been excelling at maintaining Grado, and I fear Lyon isn’t recovering fast enough for coronation this spring.”

Seth nodded, slowly turning. Lyon’s blood froze. “My king, you have to be prepared for the w- Gods above!”

Ephraim stood quickly, papers scattering across the floor. “Lyon?” He cried, desperation in his voice. 

Lyon smiled gently. “Hey.”

The prince crossed the room in large strides, and his embrace hit like a blow. The wound in his chest screamed in protest, but Lyon returned the grip with just as much enthusiasm. His friend was always so warm. Even in a Grado winter, being near Ephraim warmed his blood. 

“Lyon, I can’t believe....” Ephraim studied his face, and he looked as though he was holding back. Was he biting his tongue, or holding back an itch for touch? 

With a long breath, he gave an unsatisfied smile. Moving the conversation along wasn’t what he’d wanted, obviously. 

“You should sit. There’s a lot to tell you about.”

His voice was pinched, and Lyon loathed the expression on Ephraim’s face. Why did he dread their conversation so much? It was obvious he didn’t want to talk about it. What could be so much worse than his father’s death? Why was it so pressing to discuss?

With a stone heart, he nodded and took a seat. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took seven months, but here’s the update! The other chapters should come a lot quicker. As always let me know what you think @shepherdsfate !

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is @shepherdsfate. Come let me know what you think!


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